


Coincidence, Surely

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, For a case, JOHNLOCK IS ENDGAME, M/M, Marriage counseling camp, Mary is a bitch, Sally is a good bro, Sally is not so bad after all, Sherlock trying to act straight, actually married John/Mary, beginning game, but they're miserable, fake marriage Sherlock/Sally, middle game, sherlock/john, so I didn't tag it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:30:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9127810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: Sherlock has to go to marriage counseling...for a case. Sally posing as his wife is not the worst thing in the world, the worst thing in the world is his attractive, secretly sensitive, totally captivating, utterly devastating bunkmate.John Watson is in a marriage doomed to fail. His wife Mary really doesn't like him, and makes no secret of that fact. When he meets someone who takes his breath away, he realizes everything he's been missing.Two men, out in the wilderness, find warmth in each other.I didn't tag John/Mary because it's not the main pairing. They won't even kiss.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1butterfly_grl1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1butterfly_grl1/gifts), [DaringD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringD/gifts), [Tardisqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisqueen/gifts), [Batik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batik/gifts), [MyriadProBold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadProBold/gifts), [JunkenMetel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunkenMetel/gifts), [vixis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixis/gifts), [Darth_Nonie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Nonie/gifts), [Itsallgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallgood/gifts), [PenelopeWaits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeWaits/gifts), [Fandoms_Unite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandoms_Unite/gifts), [Le_Tabby_Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Tabby_Cat/gifts), [Megabat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megabat/gifts), [kitmerlot1213](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitmerlot1213/gifts), [Oleta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oleta/gifts), [Choice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Choice/gifts), [Jberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/gifts), [EllieSaxon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieSaxon/gifts), [mafm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mafm/gifts), [cheekycheekbones (Cheeycheekbones)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheeycheekbones/gifts), [JuJuBee (Marcy09)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcy09/gifts), [kree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kree/gifts), [Doctor_Tinycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Tinycat/gifts), [wintersnest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersnest/gifts), [YoYoMo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoYoMo/gifts), [MrsMusicAddict](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMusicAddict/gifts), [IantoLives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IantoLives/gifts).



For Sherlock, playing heterosexual was like putting on an American accent; he'd never been close to capable of it in his whole bloody life. And this time it had to be for days, possibly weeks. It was...impossible.

"Relax, I'll go," Lestrade said, reaching into Sherlock space to try to snatch the carefully printed index cards from his hands. 

Sherlock batted him away. "I put in the work, I get to play the part."

"Yes, but I wouldn't be playing," Lestrade countered.

"Well, not at the unhappily married bit," Sherlock said, smirking to himself.

"What exactly does-" Lestrade tried, and oh, how Sherlock could piss him off.

Sherlock smiled at his anger. "Who am I partnering with? Someone on the local team, I hope. I would honestly-"

Sally strode into the office, brand new suitcase wheeled behind her and a frown plastered to her face. 

"No," Sherlock said, voice coming out strange, "no. No. You can't be serious!"

"She's my best man, and we don't know anything about the local cops. They could be completely incompetent, and someone might notice them," Lestrade replied.

"Don't think this is going to be fun for me," Sally griped.

"My gayness, I can hide," Sherlock said with a sneer. "My disdain for her? Not so sure."

"Which will be fine, you're meant to be unhappily married. I think you've got the unhappy bit down perfectly," Greg mused.

"We need ground rules," Sally said crossing her arms defensively. "First of all, no kissing."

Sherlock sputtered and retched like a cat with a hairball and she rolled her eyes.

"Second, no shit talking. You don't get to call me names or make fun of me, and in exchange, I won't mention that the major issue in our 'marriage' is your uninterested cock," Sally added.

Sherlock turned a bit pale and Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder. "You know," he said, "it's not too late to beg off."

Sherlock shook his head resolutely. "No. I'm going. I'm going to solve the crime, and Sally will just have to watch me, as usual."

And that was how Sherlock Holmes ended up married to Sally Donovan, if only for a case.

_____

Sherlock pouted out the window as they drove along in the beat-up sedan they'd rented. Sally had insisted on driving, seeing as the rental was in her name, and he was broken up about it.

"Do you really think she won't see that you're..." she offered, the first small talk they'd attempted in twenty minutes on the road. 

It was a fair question, after all, even though she left off the word gay. The way she said it, Sherlock knew it wasn't meant as an insult. She was incompetent and didn't like Sherlock, but she wasn't homophobic.

"She's a fake marriage counselor, a horrible judge of character, and was once married to a gay man. We spoke last week, he was ambivalent. She won't know a single thing until it's too late," Sherlock answered, going through his index cards again and putting all the ones marked with a red M for married life together.

"He didn't care that she's a killer?" Sally asked.

"Don't make me repeat myself," Sherlock sighed.

"And that's why this marriage isn't working; you don't ever really want to talk to me," Sally said, her voice sounding so hurt that Sherlock glanced up in astonishment.

"You..." Sherlock tried.

"I wish you would," Sally added, voice sounding tear-stained. "We could be like we used to be. We aren't too old to start trying for a baby."

"Pull over," Sherlock said, his voice and face convincing Sally that he might actually be sick.

She pulled the the side of the road and he got out, paced for a bit, and then motioned for her to do the same. She did, reluctantly. They stood there, on the side of the road, nowhere near their destination, as the sun set, at an impasse. Luckily, Sherlock found his voice.

"You..." he said again. "You can act. That was...disturbing."

Sally grinned smugly and shrugged her shoulders. "Perhaps I missed my calling."

"I need to drive now," Sherlock pressed, hand going to grab the keys from her.

"No way in hell," she objected, pulling them away from his grasp. "We already agreed-"

"I need you to read my cards," Sherlock insisted. "And, and make notes. I had thought, I was under the impression that I would shoulder the vast majority of the talking."

"That's rich," Sally snorted. "And typical. Men, always wanting to have the last word."

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. He always hated being stuck in the same category as other men. They were, he knew, mostly horrible. "What I mean, is that I had planned on leading. Because I had done the research. Now I see that may be a mistake."

"Is the great Sherlock Holmes really admitting that I might be better than him at-" Sally stammered, grinning wildly.

"Notes," Sherlock replied shortly, holding the cards out. "And you'll have to memorize our story as well."

"In an hour?" Sally asked. "You really didn't think this through."

"I was focused on...other things," Sherlock said, adjusting the collar of his newly bought, off the rack, checked shirt.

Sally snorted and passed the keys over. Sherlock watched her get back into the car, on the passenger side, and took a moment to breathe. At least he was wearing his own pants, he reasoned, at least he had that.

_____

An hour later, pulling down the dirt road and stopping at the front office, a small shack with a hand painted welcome sign hanging from the door handle, they were back to bickering. This time, though, it was over things they agreed they could complain about. Made up things. It still felt good.

"It was my mother's birthday," Sally said in that soft, broken, voice she'd suddenly taken on.

"I told you I was working," Sherlock replied for effect, lugging his suitcase to the open shack door.

A woman with excited eyes and an abundance of ginger hair exited the shack to greet them. "Hello! You must be William and Sandy Sullivan. I'm Dr Merida, but you can call me Doc."

They nodded in sync.

"I'll show you to your cabins," the woman said, walking off at a slow pace. "Sandy, you'll be on the women's side, just down here. You're bunking with Mary Watson."

Sally nodded again as they came up on the first cabin. They were situated in a densely treed area, each cabin the exact same box, with the exact same window coverings. They looked to go on for quite a while, if you glanced left, before the trees broke back in. The trees were thick with foliage and blocked out almost all of the dying light. 

The front window on the cabin gave the perfect view to the inside. There was a blond woman  
reading a book on a small bed, legs crossed underneath her and hair pinned up close to her head. She looked up as they knocked, and came to answer the door.

"Mary, these are Sandy and her husband William. Sandy will be staying with you, and William here will be bunking with your John," Doc said.

"Good luck," Mary shot, taking Sally by the arm and leading her into the single-room cabin without a second look back. 

Sherlock wondered if all the women there were that despondent. He actually wondered for a moment if Sally would be comfortable. Really, her sudden acting skills and willingness to play along had shaken him to his core.

Doc rolled her eyes playfully and closed the door. "Now, our John is a bit of a mope. He's been here for a week with no one to bunk with. Perhaps he just needs a little company."

Sherlock thought about how unprofessional it was to call a client a mope, but reasoned that it was to be expected, as "Doc" wasn't really a doctor, and was definitely not a counselor. They made their way down a long path, dipping deeper into the woods, and Sherlock started to pull at his collar again. 

He hadn't know he was going to have to LIVE with someone. He hadn't shared living quarters since he was in uni. He knew that he didn't make a very good flatmate, and had a feeling the cramped quarters would bring out the worst in him. Perhaps he would just have to spend a great deal of time out of doors, which wouldn't be too bad if the rain stayed away.

They finally made it to the cabin as the lights on the walkway were blinking on, the sun just a memory. Sherlock tried to stand as heterosexually as possible. 'Lead with your crotch,' he thought, 'think power.'

The second the door opened, it all went to hell. His only solace was that Doc and this John fellow were both looking away from him. 

The man he was meant to be bunking with was on the short side, decently muscled, and currently in a pair of denims and an vest. It was hardly what Sherlock would consider an overtly sexual outfit, but something about the roll of the man's shoulders, the way his neck muscles moved as he pulled his shirt on and started to button it, felt so intimate, so erotic.

He steeled himself as the man turned.

"Oh, I was just, erm," John stuttered, finishing the buttons on his shirt.

"John, this is William," Doc said, seemingly unashamed of opening the door without knocking.

"Yeah, good," John said, taking a step forward and holding his hand out.

Sherlock took it and gave it a firm shake. 'Masculine, masculine, masculine,' his brain chanted. It seemed to work; John didn't appear to notice anything amiss.

"I'll leave you to it," Doc said. "Dinner is in fifteen minutes."

The door was closed and John and Sherlock stood there just staring at each other. John licked his lips and Sherlock turned away, looking about the small room for where to stick his luggage.

"Coincidence, surely," John said, smiling weakly.

Sherlock turned around again and raised an expectant eyebrow.

"You and I," John said, pointing between them, "that we're both-"

And Sherlock felt his stomach drop. Found out, just as he arrived. 

"I can explain," he said, trying to keep his voice even.

John chuckled and ran a hand through his hair and Sherlock wondered what it would feel like between his own fingers.

"You don't have to change or anything," John said, smiling honestly then.

"Change?" Sherlock asked.

John walked over and sat on the edge of one of the small beds. "It's not fashion week. No one will care that we're wearing the same shirt."

Oh! Oh. Sherlock looked down, and then back up to where John was still smiling softly. Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to think of what to say.

"We might as well head to the mess hall," John said, standing and pulling an oatmeal jumper from a duffel at the end of his bed.

"I'll just," Sherlock replied softly, opening his own bag and pulling out the awful blazer he'd bought. He immediately regretted looking so dumpy. John had a way to make a plain checked shirt look good. 

They walked out the door and John nodded to the back of the cabin. "Take the long way."

Sherlock followed him in silence for a while, trying not to stare. John was...normal looking, but there was something that simply had his heart racing. He couldn't put his finger on it.

"When did you get out of the military?" he asked, forgetting to be anyone other than himself.

John paused and turned to him. "Who said I was in the military?"

Stop! Stop! Abort!

Sherlock's brain was screaming at him, emergency lights flashing behind his eyes, but he couldn't stop. "The duffel at the end of your bed is not only military style, but military issued, the way you stand when you relax is a perfect 'at ease', your hair has two months growth, but used to be a military cut, and you called the dining room the mess hall."

And there it was, all out. Couldn't stop himself.

"That was...amazing," John said, breaking into a smile.

Sherlock ducked his head in surprise, multiplying his chins exponentially and causing John to laugh.

"Really," John added, "all that from a few minutes. Brilliant."

"T-thank you?" Sherlock replied.

John snorted and took a deep breath. "Maybe this will be a bit interesting after all."

Amazing. Brilliant. Interesting.

It was like a love poem written specifically for Sherlock, and he felt a blush moving up his neck. He smiled back and they started walking again. All he could think was how much trouble he was already in.


	2. Fake A Smile

The dining room was set up unlike the bunks, with husband and wife sitting next to each other. John and Sherlock stood at the open door, out of sight.

"She chews with her mouth open," John said quietly. "If there's one thing I'd say to my unmarried self it would be, pay attention to the sounds they make with they eat."

Sherlock glanced over at him, imagining John younger, carefree. John took it the wrong way and cleared his throat nervously.

"Sorry, just thought-" he tried, weakly.

Sherlock scrambled for something to say back, trying to think about what he'd written on the blasted index cards. He fumbled in his pocket, the sense memory bringing it back to him.

"She doesn't take me seriously," he said, something he'd written specifically for Sally, riding in the passenger seat car of the nondescript sedan, before the ice had melted between them.

John slumped, seemingly pulled towards the ground by a large weight. "Yeah," he said, voice almost a sigh, "I get that."

Sherlock relaxed a bit, happy that his answer was correct. He'd done the research, after all, on bad marriages. Most 'unforgivable' actions listed on divorce papers were either small, like the chewing John had mentioned, or vague. 'She fills the dishwasher wrong,' or, 'she doesn't get me'. Neither, of course, had anything to do with ultimate incompatibility, but rather, were a means to an end. The scorned spouse would never be able to change all of the inconsequential little behaviors, as they weren't actually the problem, and couldn't change the vague attitudes, as they were most likely miscommunication and not actual disdain.

Marriage, in short, only worked if you wanted it to. Sherlock wondered at how his immediate wish was for John and Mary to not want it to work.

'He's not going to DATE you,' the Mycroft in Sherlock's head said.

Sherlock frowned at that, angry that his inner voice always took on his brother when it said what he really already knew.

"Well," John said, "fake a smile and get on with it, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded and watched as John went to sit next to his wife. He saw the way her spine straightened and her jaw clenched, all of it matched in John's posture, and tried not to think about it. Instead, he made his way over and sat next to Sally, putting his napkin primly in his lap and looking at his plate.

"Sandwiches," Sally said, the din of the room making it a conversation between just the two of them. "Three weeks of sandwiches for every meal, and bunking with that awful woman. I might just go mad."

Sherlock turned to her and raised an eyebrow. 

"What?" Sally asked. "Don't tell me yours is any better. She's a cold bitch. You don't marry a cold bitch by accident."

When Sherlock simply looked at his lap Sally's eye went wide.

"Oh my god," she gasped, leaning in, "you LIKE him."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and cleared his throat. "We're here for a reason. Be professional."

"Fine," she said.

Sherlock pulled his sandwich apart and took out the bits he didn't like, watching carefully how Mary pulled at John's collar and fussed with his hair. 

"What do we have on for tomorrow?" he asked once he'd taken a bite and pointedly swallowed all the way.

"A hike, and talking about our feelings," Sally said, explicit disgust on the last word.

"Wonderful," Sherlock replied.

"Wait," Sally said, looking between him and John, "are you two wearing the same shirt?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried for composure as a flush creeped up his cheeks. "I just happened to pick out the perfect heterosexual attire."

"Yeah," Sally said, "except he's bi."

_____

After dinner they were told to pair off and go sit and talk, given a topic and pushed away. Sally and Sherlock made their way as far from the group as possible, sitting on two of the stumps that made up the edge of the parking lot.

"What the hell does this mean?" Sally asked, opening the paper and glaring at it. "Your biggest fear? Who tells ANYONE their biggest fear?"

Sherlock snorted and she glared at him.

"What?" she demanded.

"Nothing...I was just thinking the same," Sherlock replied with an honest smile. 

Sally relaxed a bit and huffed out a laugh. "Well, good."

"She really is a terrible counselor. People have to build up a great deal of trust to share things like that. The people here are on the complete opposite end of the spectrum. The last thing they have is trust," Sherlock replied.

Sally gave him a look, and when he didn't speak, she did. "You know a lot more about living people than I'd thought."

Sherlock shook his head at her, amused. "You do realise that every dead body we come across USED to be alive, right? It's hardly the dead bit of it that gives me insight."

Sally shrugged and they sat there for a long time. 

"Want to break into the office?" she said at last.

Sherlock grinned. "I believe, SANDY, that you've just about read my mind."

And off they went.


	3. Stolen Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell me if having John's pov call sherlock William is confusing.

Sally somehow managed to stub her toe pretty badly in the dark. What was even more interesting, though, was that Sherlock didn't make fun of her for it. That was something that made him pause, and he was thinking about it even as he got back to the bunk. He walked in with his head still in the clouds and found John sitting up on his bed in the dark.

Sherlock sank down onto his bed. He obviously couldn't say that he was upset because they hadn't found any sign of any illicit behavior. He simply sat, his eyes adjusting.

"It was a horrible prompt," John said, not explaining why he was sitting in the dark. 

Sherlock went out on a limb. "Who tells anyone their darkest secret?"

John snorted and shrugged. "People with nothing to hide."

Sherlock sat with that thought for a moment. John, the man with something to hide, was sitting across from him, only the pale light from the walkway bleeding through the curtains. As the room came more into focus, Sherlock saw that John was wearing all of his clothes.

"Some things," Sherlock said, clearing his throat and starting again. "Some things need to be hidden. The world is..."

"An ugly place," John finished, sighing and folding in on himself a bit. "I should tell you. I don't, I can't really sleep. Much. At all, some nights."

Sherlock huffed out a laugh and got up, walking over to the door. "Close your eyes. I'm turning the light back on."

John looked down, letting Sherlock know that he had, and the room was illuminated. Sherlock went back to his bed and sat facing John. Everything in his being seemed to exude pain. His shoulders slumped in defeat, his brow furrowed, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, his socked feet. How on earth socked feet could look sad, Sherlock had no clue, but there they were.

"I don't sleep much myself," Sherlock admitted.

John's thumb played with his wedding ring, rubbing over it again and again.

Sherlock sighed. "What does a person have to do to get a cup of tea around here?"

The left side of John's mouth ticked up. "Pray?"

Sherlock snorted and lay back on his bed. "Really, though. I'm in terrible need. Feel like I'm going insane."

John actually did smile then, falling back onto his bed and letting his head settle so he could appraise Sherlock. "Welcome to hell, William; where the tea is locked away and you're meant to tell people your secrets."

Sherlock felt himself smiling back, that soft, sweet smile of shared exhaustion. "Well, John," he replied, enjoying the name on his tongue, "I just happen to have the answer to the first issue."

John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock pulled the universal key he'd nicked from the office out of his blazer and dangled it. John's eyes opened wide and he sat up.

"Opens every door in the place," Sherlock said.

"Really?" John asked, standing as Sherlock did.

Sherlock smiled at him, dazzling. "God, I hope so."

John laughed and Sherlock promised himself that it wouldn't be the last laugh he caused. He ducked his head and, perfectly synchronized, they walked out together.

_____

John was giddy. How many bloody years had it been since he was honest to God giddy? Christ, he felt alive!

He had to take three steps for each of William's, the lanky git. They made it quickly to the mess hall, going the back way, hidden in the trees, and went up to the back door.

"Be my lookout," William said.

John nodded, his chest expanding with unabashed joy. He was honestly afraid he might laugh out loud, let out a cackle and give them away. Lookout, God that felt good.

He stood at the edge of the building and surveyed the area. No one was up and about, and luckily, Doc lived offsite. If they were caught, he figured, it would only be one of the clients. They would be more likely to keep the secret and join the two for tea than give them away.

(Except, he thought, for Mary. Mary was always the exception.)

With a quiet snick, the door opened and William gripped his sleeve. He was surprised when he didn't pull away on instinct. Instead, he just turned and followed the man in. They quietly made their way to the back room, a large kitchen with massive stoves and peeling paint that showed at least ten different colours, giving away the age of the place. 

There wasn't a window in the room, so William turned on the light and started searching for the tea bags. John stood there watching him, the way he moved almost sinuously in the ill fitting blazer, the way he rose onto his toes for a second of glee when the box of Twinings was found. 

And, oh, John found himself still smiling.

He tried to tamp down on it, not wanting to seem mad, and went to find milk in the industrial sized freezer. He could hear William moving behind him, now that they were inside he was less than stealthy, and kept looking into the fridge long after the milk was in his hand. He could feel his heart beating, could taste the excitement, and all over a cup of tea.

"This will take forever to boil," William said, fiddling with the knob on the stove. "Why they don't just have an electric-ow!"

John spun to find William sucking on the tip of his finger, obviously surprised at the force of the burner. The fire was licking up the sides of the kettle, nearly engulfing it, and John turned the burner down while William seemed to pout.

"Let me see," John said finally, turning and placing his hands on his hips so as not to reach out.

William held his finger out and frowned and John felt himself smiling again. "It's not bad."

"One less fingerprint to give me away," William mused, exaggerating and looking at it carefully.

John snorted and they fell quiet, staring at each other for longer than was needed. John wasn't even sure at that point what the correct amount of staring was. He kept doing it as William's eyes seemed to pull him in. Everything was zeroed in on them, he was aware of nothing else. It was too bloody late to be staring at anyone.

The kettle saved them, but that was a sad thought in itself. The staring ate up minutes of time. How embarrassing.

William poured the tea and sat on the counter, long legs dangling off the edge, toes touching the ground. John placed the milk on the counter next to William and hopped up as well. He was much less acrobatic, and much less tall, and it ended up including a strange grunt, but he was there.

"Milk?" he offered.

William nodded and put a stupid amount of sugar in his tea, not looking up as John passed the milk and wiggling his fingers as some sort of homing beacon. John pressed the half empty carton into his hands after using it, and waited for him to pass over the sugar.

"This is nice," he said, feeling strange about saying so.

"Stolen tea always tastes better," William said, looking into his mug, "don't you think?"

John nodded. It was, in fact, the best tea he'd ever tasted, or would be when it was a suitable temperature.


	4. Fault

The comfortable quiet went on for a while, but it honestly couldn't last. Both of them were searching their minds for the appropriate topic of conversation. John came to it first.

"So, your wife is..." John said, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked.

"I've, well, I'm not good with names," John replied with a self deprecating smile.

"Sandy," Sherlock said, thankful to have sputtered the right name. "She's bunking with your wife."

John's shoulders slumped forward and he looked into his tea. "Do you...do you reckon they're getting on?"

Sherlock had to pause there, because he wasn't sure what a suitable answer would be. Would John want to know that Sally thought Mary was horrid, or would he like to believe that the woman was happy as long as he wasn't around? It was hard to tell. Sally had called her a cold bitch and remarked that no one marries someone like that on accident. Did John like that she was a cold bitch?

"Not...sure," Sherlock settled on. "We only bickered at dinner."

"Oh," John said, eyebrows knit.

Sherlock couldn't tell if it was the right answer from the reaction. With nothing to go on, he went to his bag of tricks, or index cards, rather. "How did you two meet?"

John took a long sip of his tea and shrugged. "I'm a doctor, but you probably knew that, and she's a nurse. Met her on my first day and she made fun of my limp."

When Sherlock didn't respond John drew in a deep breath and tried again.

"Well, not like that. That makes it sound terrible. It was a joke, sort of, between us. 'Poor Dr Watson.' It was...I needed it. I was wallowing."

"Depressed?" Sherlock asked. He knew depression quite well.

"Anyway," John said, not answering. "She just kind of, took over my life. I didn't really realise we were dating until it was too late."

A strange way of putting it; too late. John looked down into his empty tea cup and licked his lips. Sherlock needed to find another way to entertain him. It was all going so well, and then-

"And you and the missus?" John asked, hopping off the edge of the counter and going to rustle something up from the cabinets.

Sherlock blanked. He honest to God blanked. John paused when he stayed quiet and then turned when the silence was drawn out. Sherlock could feel his face heating up and cleared his throat twice.

"Oh, god, don't tell me," John said, exasperated smile stealing across his lips. "You two were uni sweethearts, weren't you?"

Sherlock nodded dumbly, clutching to John's save. "Love at first sight. Physics." And now he was spinning a web he knew was a mistake. He was falling in his mind, and he couldn't stop. He was telling John the story of his relationship with Victor. "She sat next to me and we...got on."

"How long have you been together?" John asked, coming back to the counter with a jar of olives and a bag of crisps.

"F-five years," Sherlock said, and yes, now he could see it in his mind; Victor sitting across from him, smiling sweetly. Their first date, that Sherlock had planned. How lovesick he'd been, how foolishly romantic. "Married on Valentine's Day."

John giggled at that. "Oh, you're a smart one. Don't have to remember an anniversary that way. Suppose it'd be someone like you that would think that up."

Sherlock frowned. It hadn't been a way out at all. He'd just been so...enamored. He had a shock, a roil in his stomach, remembering their first Christmas together. Victor, handsome, brilliant Victor. The love of his life, and he'd almost forgot the man.

"Things only ever went downhill," he said, voice so soft he wasn't sure he'd spoken at all.

John sighed and opened the crisps. "And now, you're here. Stuck with the rest of us poor fools. Don't worry, though, you're not the only one here who has to shoulder the blame."

"It WAS my fault," Sherlock blurted, remembering the day Victor left. "Is. Is my fault."

"Hey," John murmured, bending to look Sherlock in the eye. "Hey, it's okay, you know. We're all a little fucked up. At least you know she wants to make things right."

Sherlock looked up, held John's eye. "Apologies. It's late, and-"

John placed a hand on his knee, doctorly, and Sherlock fell silent. After a beat, John nodded and Sherlock nodded back.

_____

Jesus. Now John felt horrible. It was obvious that William was terribly in love with his wife. He knew that he should be the same, that he should love Mary, but it wasn't there. It had, in all bloody honesty, never been there. He'd simply let her lead. He gave up on looking for love and let her lead him down the isle by the ear. He wanted so badly for her to be right.

"I...I'm to blame as well," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "I can't be the man she wants, I can't..."

Jesus, that was the closest he'd come to honesty in years. The words echoed in his ears and he could finally see how hopeless it all was. He couldn't. 

But that was too far. He let his head hang a bit and wondered absently at the horrible turn the night had taken.

"Let's...let's make a promise, yeah?" he asked, looking up at William with new determination. "Let's not speak of it again. Anything but marriage. What do you say?"

He held out his hand and William stared at it for a moment before taking it, echoing the words. John smiled at him and took a deep breath. 

"What's you're favorite topic?" he asked, hand falling back to his side.

"Tobacco ash," William blurted.

John wasn't sure he'd ever seen someone regret so quickly, so obviously, what they'd just said. It was rather adorable how the man's face twisted. "Tobacco ash?"

"No," William snorted, chin dipping and multiplying. "Not tobacco ash. Obviously. Football."

John's brain had already caught hold of the thread, however, and he wasn't yet ready to let it go. "Whatever you might do at home, you don't have to lie to me. I won't tell a soul."

Something flickered in William's eyes and he nodded slightly.

"Well?" John asked.

"243," William replied, licking his lips. "243 distinct types."

John couldn't help but grin. He had no interest in ash of any kind, but the relief in William's eyes had captivated him. He felt something rushing through him, some thrill at knowing this secret.

"Explain," he said, smiling openly and giving the man his full attention.

William pulled in a deep breath, nostrils flaring, and removed his blazer. He rolled up both sleeves and hopped down to start pacing, already going into nicotine percentages and rattling off numbers John couldn't keep up with. The thing was, he looked different. It wasn't just fevered actions, his movements became purposeful, fluid again. John swore the air around them changed in those moments, and he was once again in for the show of his life.

He. Was. Lost.


	5. The Meadow

Sherlock had never really appreciated his ability to speak ad nauseam about random topics as much as he did just then. Four hours on leaves, first tobacco, then tea, then medicinal, and John was drifting off to sleep across from him, small noises coming from his dozing form. He'd been replying softly the last few minutes, but it had turned from single syllables to hums and grunts, and now he was truly asleep.

Sherlock let his voice grow softer, and then stop all together, watching John carefully to make sure he wasn't roused. He reckoned he would have had John in a similar state much earlier if he'd brought along his violin, and wondered if John fell asleep to the telly or the radio at home. 

Victor had been the same way after the accident, needing sound at all times, even if he wasn't paying attention. Silence was suspicious to him, and Sherlock learned in that last few weeks how to properly tune out the radio while still picking up on interesting bits of information. 

The guilt he felt at what had happened to put Victor in that state, a case gone wrong with the young man and him smack in the middle of it, was warm in his stomach still, even that many years later. Traumatic event was what Victor's therapist had called it, and he supposed it was true. Victor being locked in the boot of a car for that many hours, thinking he was going to die there, had changed them both.

John sighed in his sleep and Sherlock rolled onto his back to watch the ceiling, content to do so until the sun rose.

_____

John turned over, trying to pull the covers up around his neck, and found he was on top of them. He sat with a bolt and looked around the small room. Daylight was spilling through the curtains, dust motes spinning lazily, and the morning was young. He was still in his clothes, and it took him a second to remember what had happened the night before.

With the memory, talking late into the night like bloody teenagers, came a warmth he had yet to place. He felt young.

That is, until he tried to stand. His leg protested quite painfully and he gritted his teeth and pushed his thumbs into the muscles of his thigh. The cheap mattress was the worst part about the place, to be honest. He'd had trouble sleeping before, what with the nightmares, but here it was nigh impossible. 

'Unless,' he thought with a small smile, 'some genius rants at you until you can't keep your eyes open.'

After a few minutes of massaging John was able to stretch and brush his teeth in the small basin before pulling a coat on and going to look for William. As he left the cabin, cold morning air biting at his nose and fingers, he wondered if the man had slept at all. He couldn't remember a time when he had seemed the least bit drowsy.

The path that led past the line of cabins and into the woods held a set of bloody large footprints. The ground-cover had a thin layer of frost and the prints were clear to see as John followed them. He wondered how much longer they would be visible and looked over his shoulder to see the first of them, in the clearing in front of his door, starting to warp in the sunlight. 

He was reminded of spring coming to Narnia in a book he read years before, and tried not to pay too much attention to how romantic a thought it was. 'You aren't a frozen land under an evil spell,' he reminded himself, 'you're just an idiot in an unhappy marriage. No one is coming to save you. There is no spell to break.'

And, god, as if the heavens above were telling him to guess again, William appeared in front of him like a bloody magical creature. He was standing a ways out in the largest of the clearings, a meadow that John had often gone to sit in, and he was glowing. The rising sun lit his hair like a crown and each movement seemed to shimmer. John stood still, watching, as the man knelt and picked something from a bush, and held it aloft.

When John felt he could breathe a bit better he took the last few steps out of the woods and hovered at the edge of the meadow, tall grass soaking the legs of his trousers in dew. 

"Come hold this for me," William said, hand reaching out with whatever he'd plucked.

John chuckled at how easily William sensed him there, without even a real look in his direction, and at how the man was so calm about being discovered, as if he was just waiting for John to finally make it. 

He walked to where William stood and took the leaf from him, watching as the man pulled a small pad of paper from his pocket and a pencil from behind his ear.

"Hold it so the sunlight shows the veins," William requested.

"Did you sleep?" John said, doing as was asked and watching as William started to sketch.

"Mmm," William hummed, deep in concentration.

John could tell that it wasn't meant as an answer to his question, and simply stood there, waiting to find out what would come next. Just as his arm was starting to cramp, William reach forward and took the leaf back, placing it in his notebook and flattening it there. 

When William finally looked up at John his eyes were nearly clear in colour, and held nothing to tell John how he felt. He wasn't sure he would ever be able to breathe correctly again if William kept looking at him like that. He felt like a specimen, and it was uncomfortable and strangely arousing.

"John," William murmured, finally coming back to himself.

John swallowed and smiled. 'I'll be anyone you want,' he thought.

"Would you like to see a bird's nest?" William asked, eyes now excited and warm, tinged with the blue of the sky

"Absolutely," John breathed out, embarrassed at how much it sounded like a moan.

The embarrassment was left behind by the open smile William gave just before turning.

"Come along, then," William shot over his shoulder, "we haven't long before they all wake up."

John took a deep breath, and followed him into the wild.


	6. The Next Victim

The snap of a twig behind them had John taking a step closer to William, ready, if need be, to defend. When it turned out to be nothing, and William began to walk again, John kept just as close. That was the way his brain worked, unfortunately, and once the danger alarm had been set off, it was off.

"It's just here," William said, gesturing into the low brush and not seeming to notice anything strange in their proximity.

John leaned in and saw the nest, four small white eggs and a screaming mother bird. "She's not too thrilled to see us."

William smiled and went back to writing in his notepad.

"How long have you been out here?" John asked, looking around to make sure they were still alone.

"Slipped out just as the sun started to rise," William answered. "Fifteen minutes. I like the mornings, especially so close to nature. Things are quiet."

John couldn't help but gaze into William's eyes at that, his voice was tender, as if he was speaking low so that the forest wouldn't wake up. 

"How did you sleep?" William murmured next, taking a step and nearly touching John when he put away his notepad.

John smiled, because the man had to know that he'd slept because of him. When William smiled back, slowly, John looked away and swallowed. Christ, he felt electric. Alive for the sole purpose of being near the strange man. 

"We should..." he found himself saying.

William hummed and turned, and they slowly walked back to the cabins.

_____

"You look rested," Sherlock pressed, speaking as they walked slowly back to the cabins.

"I did sleep. Several hours even," John admitted, head ducked.

"Good," Sherlock replied, confused by how much it mattered to him.

They rounded on the edge of the cabins just as the breakfast bell was rung, and slowed as people started to emerge. Sherlock felt John pull at his sleeve and moved back into the trees a bit.

"Alright?" Sherlock whispered, watching how John's body stiffened and his jaw set.

John's nostrils flared and he shook himself a bit. "Yeah, sorry."

Even after that they remained hidden for a few more minutes, breathing in tandem and not speaking a word. John was the first to move, as Sherlock had no interest in pushing him, and they finally continued on to the cafeteria.

"See you soon?" Sherlock said as they walked through the door. It wasn't really a question he needed to ask, as they would only be sitting across the room from each other, but he needed John to know he was going. It felt strange to leave his side.

John nodded solemnly and walked to sit next to his wife. 

"Where have you two been?" Sally asked, suddenly beside Sherlock and making him jump a bit.

"In the woods," Sherlock admitted.

Sally looked him over and then took his hand and led him awkwardly to their table. "The thing we were looking for last night..."

Sherlock perked up. "Any news?"

"I think I know the next intended victim," Sally said, pressing in to whisper into his ear.

_____

Mary wasn't exactly what she seemed. Sally said that she smelled like a cop. She brought up patterns of behavior that suggested she was picking up on the criminal element they were there to engage with. 

After breakfast Sally had pulled Sherlock into the maintenance room and was explaining it all while the rest of the group went to shower and get ready for the day.

"She has a notebook," Sally explained. "Has a complete list of clients and staff, and how often they have interacted. I was going to try to nick it last night, after realising what it was, but she sleeps with the thing under her pillow."

"Can you get it while she showers?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll have to wait until this evening. She showered yesterday right before we came. She keeps it on her at all times, so that's the opportunity I need," Sally said with a nod. 

"Good. And who is the next victim?" Sherlock pressed.

Sally's face scrunched up and Sherlock shook his head, furious. 

"No. Why him?"

"I think Doc likes him. She has the most interaction with him, and the way she watched him during supper was strange," Sally tried to explain.

"I'm not questioning motive, it's just..." Sherlock replied with a huff.

"You like him. I know," Sally said with a sad smile. "So let's go protect him. You stay on him, and I'll stick with Mary. See what I can get her to divulge. Perhaps play up the jealousy angle and suggest Doc might have a crush on John."

Sherlock nodded and started to turn, pausing when Sally's hand touched his shoulder.

"She won't manage it with us around," Sally said.

"I know that," Sherlock spat.

Sally poked him in the side at that. "I'm just trying to comfort you, you great idiot. No need to be short."

Sherlock sighed something that may, under that particular circumstance, have sounded like 'sorry', and walked out the door.

"Necking in the dark?" Doc said, as Sherlock nearly ran into her. "I see there's hope for you yet."

Sally smiled and took Sherlock by the arm before he could say whatever was obviously on his mind.


	7. Kind Words

Before lunch the group met around a large campfire, sitting on segments of logs that had them sidling up to their spouse to keep from falling off. Forced proximity.

John's body felt particularly hot where it was pressed to Mary, his hip and elbow uncomfortable. The roughness of the wood against his trousers, the way bits of it pulled at him when he shifted, made him want to scream. He wished he was anywhere else.

"You do realise that frowning like that makes me look like a horrid wife, don't you?" Mary asked under her breath, false smiled spread across her face.

John bit his lip to keep from responding and looked around for William in the settling crowd.

"Of course, stay silent. That's your one good quality, isn't it?" Mary continued. "Or, I guess you're looking for your little boyfriend. I did wonder how long it would take for you to go in that direction."

That hit John in the gut and he finally turned to her.

"Well, that has his attention," Mary said, shit eating grin and all.

"Why do you do this? Why do you have to...to bully me? Why not just get divorced?" he asked, speaking truthfully for the first time in years.

"Bully? Big word, little man," Mary crooned, reaching out and adjusting his collar.

John's eyes fell and he went back to silence, reassuring himself it would be over soon. Two weeks and he'd get the divorce she kept fighting against. Counseling, moderation, was more of a punishment brought on him than something she actually thought would help. She just wanted him humiliated. Unfortunately, it was working.

He looked across the way and saw Sandy and William sit down. The two men's eyes were drawn to each other like magnets and they both smiled nervously. John felt relief again, that peculiar relief that came with William still liking him. His mood hinged on it, at that point.

"Really will be a romantic story to tell the kiddies," Mary teased, voice going lower in a mocking fashion. "Your daddies met at a camp for closeted men. They were both married to wicked, wicked women at the time."

"Stop it," he hissed. 

Apparently, it wasn't as quiet as he'd meant, as the others all looked his way. That was exactly what she'd wanted; to bring out his anger in a public space. She knew he hated that side of himself.

"John," Doc drawled, "do you need a personal session today?"

_____

Sherlock was close to standing up out of frustration. Personal session? Christ, if John said yes, he'd have to interrupt. He watched as John's hands clenched and a flush moved up his neck. Luckily, he gave a resolute no.

"Alright, well, I guess that means we should start. We're going to go around in a circle and say aloud one thing we'd like from our partner. John, since you're a bit wound up, we'll give you some time to think. Gerald, why don't you start?" Doc said, nodding to the man sitting next to Mary and John.

Sherlock was so focused on John that it was his turn to speak before he realised it. He cleared his throat several times and then blurted out 'trust' before quickly going silent again. Sally said 'comfort' in that sickly convincing tone she'd taken on, and the circle went on. 

When it got to Mary, the woman looked right at Sherlock. He diverted his eyes and caught John's reaction just as she spoke.

"Sexual intimacy," she said, enunciating each syllable. "Although I don't think I should keep my hopes up."

Doc silenced her and Sherlock felt ill at the stillness of John's body. It was a blow John had seen coming, apparently, and he was ready with a counter punch.

"Freedom," he said, eyes boring into Sherlock's.

The group was mumbling. John and Mary were the entertainment, it seemed, and everyone was less shocked by Mary's comment than John's. There were honest to God gasps when he said the word freedom, which gave Sherlock the impression that he'd not acted on such an impulse before. The shock on Mary's face backed up the hypothesis.

"Well," Doc said, "at least that was honest. I'll see you all back here in a hour for guided meditation."

People dispersed immediately and Sherlock was happy to see Sally take off after Mary. John and Sherlock were left alone after mere moments, and Sherlock nodded towards the woods. John swallowed and nodded as well, getting up and walking off into the trees as Sherlock waited a beat before following.

_____

There. He'd said it. Wasn't as though the group would gossip any less if he kept quiet. 

Freedom.

Freedom was the only thing he was interested in, and he could almost taste it. Didn't mean he felt any less like a bloody failure. White picket fence, 2.5 kids and a dog, the whole lot was so far away from possible that he actually felt stupid for believing he could have something good in the first place. He was obviously born to be miserable.

Miserable and alone.

"John?" William asked, walking up beside him.

John grunted and continued on. He was happy that they'd promised not to talk about marriage, because after that show he wouldn't be able to be anything but honest with the man. William would sit in horror as John explained that he'd come to the camp knowing it would end in divorce, that he wasn't even trying.

What would a man so in love and desperate for things between himself and his wife to go well think of him? His lack of interest in Mary made a mockery of William's situation, didn't it? His marriage alone, was a mockery. Would William hate him?

"Toxoplasmosis," William said, pulling John from his hateful thoughts and pointing to the small stream a few yards away. "Ever seen a case of it?"

John looked up at him and smiled. "Only a few. House cats were the carrier in both. You don't really see people catching it from contaminated water, because the people out hiking aren't usually immunocompromised."

William smiled back and John laughed.

"What made you ask?" he pressed, standing closer to William than was really necessary.

William shrugged and looked a bit embarrassed. "First thing that popped into my mind when I saw the stream."

They started walking again and William took a broken tree branch to move rocks around in the stream bed.

"You aren't...you're not a doctor, are you?" John asked, one question among the millions he had about the man.

"Mmm. No. Infectious disease is quite interesting, though, don't you think?" William asked.

"Your brain just keeps going, doesn't it?" John asked in return, sure his face shone like a beacon.

"Problem?" William asked, stilling where he stood.

"I could listen to you talk for the rest of my life," John said, eyes going wide as it dawned on him how that came out. "I mean. Your interests are unique."

William looked over at him and John couldn't read his face. His eyes skittered across John's body and landed back on the ground between them.

"I-I'm sorry," John stammered. "That came out a little-"

"When we broke into the kitchen," William interrupted, "you were happy."

John didn't exactly know how to respond, so he simply nodded.

"How often do you find yourself like that, John?" William asked, voice so serious it made John feel a bit sick.

"Breaking into kitchens?" he deflected with a strange laugh.

"Happy," William replied, taking a step closer and pulling the air from John's lungs.

"Not...not often," John whispered. "I can't really remember..."

For a second, John was sure that William was going to kiss him. (He felt young again, that tittering anxiety that came with a first kiss in youth.) William swayed towards him, hand reaching up to his neck-and then swayed back, a leaf plucked from John's hair in his hand. John thought he might burst from his seams at the tension.

"That," William whispered, looking John directly in the eye, "is a horrible shame."

And somehow, that was the kindest thing anyone had ever told John.


	8. Not Done With You Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little pain before it all gets soothed.

Sometimes, horribly romantic things happen in public loos. Not often, of course, but sometimes, just sometimes, they do. Sherlock knew that, as knowing things about human behavior was of great importance to his job, but never in a million years did he suspect he might be involved in one of those situations.

John was very hard to secretly track. He always managed to know where Sherlock was. The only way he could keep John safe was to pretty much glue himself to the man's hip. That was how he managed to be standing in the stall next to John, pretending to use the loo, when Doc entered a few nights after it became clear he was the target.

The fact that she hadn't noticed Sherlock there just went to prove how impossibly bad she was at that little hobby. Killing just wouldn't be something she would continue to succeed at.

Sherlock burst from the stall when he heard the scuffle and managed to pull Doc off John, where he was standing washing his hands. In a split second he had to decide whether to run after Doc, who was doing a better job escaping than he'd hoped for, or stay with John. The handle of the knife sticking out of John's side made the decision for him.

"John, don't move," he said, frantically calling for an ambulance.

John's hands gripped the edge of the sink and Sherlock helped him to sit on the ground while he shouted orders into the mobile.

"John, John, can you hear me?" Sherlock asked once he'd rang off. "The ambulance is on the way."

"This is...bloody...typical," John said, wincing as Sherlock tried to stabilize the knife.

Sherlock smiled at that, a sad, aching smile, and couldn't look away from John's eyes.

"There's quite a bit of blood," Sherlock murmured, it seeped from between his fingers, hot and slick.

John paused for a moment and then gripped the handle of the knife. "We're quite a ways out. Might just be my time."

Sherlock huffed and shook his head, stopping his movement as he realised exactly what he planned to do. "Shut up!"

John looked up at that and Sherlock grimaced before speaking again. 

"You don't get to decide that. This is an easily survivable wound," and of that Sherlock was not entirely sure, "but it won't be if you take out the knife."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes and his mouth twisted. He looked so lost.

"I'm tired," he murmured. "I'm just tired."

Sherlock knelt closer and rested his forehead against John's. They breathed the same air and Sherlock tried to gather his thoughts.

"I know," he whispered, trying not to cry. "Problem is, I'm not done with you yet."

John snorted and winced.

"I don't," Sherlock tried, "I don't think I'll ever be quite done with you."

"Don't say that," John answered, face slowly turning pale in the fluorescent lighting. "You're happy. Don't fuck that up."

Sherlock shook his head, a bit more honesty coming out than he was prepared for. "I'm not happy. I haven't been happy for years. I'm as alone as you are. Was, was alone."

They stayed there, crouched on the floor, a breath away, for long minutes, not saying a word.

_____

He wanted to see John in the hospital.

They'd caught Doc and Sally had been kind enough to give her a black eye whilst taking her down, accident, possibly, and John had been brought directly into surgery while they spoke with the local police. Lestrade joined them as quickly as he could, and then there was nothing to do but drive home.

Sally said she'd ride back with Lestrade, and passed over the keys to the rental with a sad smile.

"Don't wreck it," she said, holding onto the keys for a moment before releasing them into Sherlock's palm.

It sounded more like 'don't drive off a cliff', and that was alright. He wasn't going to, of course, he was going to drive straight to the hospital. He drove the whole way there with the windows down, the air on his face the only thing keeping him from screaming. The last time he'd seen John it was with Mary leaning over him and claiming her love over and over, in the back of the ambulance. John hadn't taken his eyes off Sherlock's.

He knew she would be in the hospital room, but in his mind he would swing in, jacket swirling, and proclaim his love. John would tell Mary to leave, and they would...well, he didn't get that far.

Real life, though, contained none of the romance. John was still unconscious when Sherlock walked into the room.

"You!" Mary hissed. "You've been trying to steal my husband the whole time. Don't think I didn't see you!"

Sherlock was dumbstruck, and barely put up a fight when the nurse told him only family was allowed at that time. 

And so...he left. He made it to the car before breaking into sobs, and drove back to London with tears still rolling down his face.

Stupid, he'd been so incredibly stupid.

_____

John wasn't in a good mood when he ran into Mike. He was leaning heavily on a cane, side still giving him trouble, and trying to get somewhere he could sit down so he could drink his bloody coffee.

"John," Mike said, "John Watson."

And John paused, because social niceties were burned into his brain.

"Mike Stamford," Mike explained. "From Bart's."

"Oh, yes, of course. Mike," John mumbled, nodding when Mike motioned towards the bench.

"What are you doing back in London? I heard you and the missus were living a few hours away," Mike said. John raised his eyebrows and Mike had the presence of mind to look embarrassed. "Word gets around when a doctor marries a nurse."

John's thumb rubbed over his finger, where his ring used to be, and cleared his throat. "We, uh, it didn't work out."

Mike's eyes shot wide and he nodded. "So now you're back in London. Surprised me that anyone could get you to live somewhere other than here, but...well, now you're back."

"Not for long," John said bitterly. "Once I'm done with physio I'll have to move again. Can barely afford the rent as it is."

John was a bit confused by the pause before Mike spoke again.

"Why not go in for a flatshare?" 

John snorted, and it hurt. "Me? I'm an out of work, recently divorced, middle aged man with a cane. Who in their right mind would want to live with me?"

It was hard to breathe as John thought bitterly, 'There it is, all laid out. You wanted to know how I was doing? Hmm? You wanted to know who I am now? Well, there you bloody go. Hope you're happy.'

When Mike actually smiled, John ground out an angry 'what?'.

"Well...it's just, you're the second person who has said that to me today. Well, not the bits in between, but...have you got a few minutes?" Mike asked.

Social niceties, and the possibility of staying in London. 'Yeah,' he thought, 'I've got bloody nothing to do but grieve.


	9. Stabbing Aside

Sherlock was having a normal day. It had been months since he left the counseling camp, and he'd got on with his life. After all, he had no place in John's. John didn't even know his real name.

He had the samples under the microscope, and had Lestrade's answer in hand when he heard two people walk in. One, obvious by his gait, was Mike.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone," he said, not looking up from the sample. "My battery died."

"Oh, left mine in my office, sorry," Mike answered. "But I've got someone here, who-"

Sherlock looked up and felt suddenly light-headed.

_____

That voice. Christ, his curls were tamed now and his suit actually fit him and he was bloody gorgeous. John found himself unable to move for a second. When he did get his faculties back, he pulled the mobile from his jacket and held it out.

"You can use mine." His voice sounded strange to his ears.

William was quickly walking forward and waving Mike away, and then, Jesus, they were alone.

"The call can wait," William said, concerned expression on his face as he looked John up and down. "The injury is still giving you trouble, and-"

"I'm divorced," John blurted, holding up his hand weakly to show the lack of ring. It was forward, yes, but he had to hope, no matter how cruel that was. "Counseling doesn't fix everything. How is...Sandy?"

"Sally," William corrected. (John could have sworn it was Sandy.) "We aren't married."

"Oh," John replied, hoping he didn't sound too keen, "well, sorry about that."

William sighed and straightened his cuffs, looking to the ground. "No, what I mean is, we were never married. She's a detective, you see, and I'm a bit of one myself," there was a pause, "Sherlock Holmes. At your service."

John looked at the outstretched hand and took a step back. Sherlock's voice was uncertain, but damn it, it should have been.

"Sorry?" John shot back, face twisting.

"No, John. I'm the one who's sorry. I was there to catch the killer you knew as Doc before she injured anyone else. I wasn't fast enough. I failed you," Sherlock said, head hanging again as he shifted on his feet.

"So..." John started, his head spinning.

Sherlock glanced up and John took a deep breath and went on, because he was gorgeous, and he was sorry, and he made John feel alive. "What you're telling me is...you're single?" Sherlock looked confused for a second, so John went on. "Because I know this place downtown that makes a great curry, and I'm free tonight."

Sherlock broke into a smile and made a bit of a squeaking noise and John smiled back.

"John Watson," Sherlock said, stepping closer, "are you asking me on a date."

John nodded and licked his lips. "Under one condition; you have to tell me everything about the case."

_____

Ten minutes later they were sitting on a bench outside and Sherlock was getting ready to tell John the truth. It really wasn't the most exciting story, but it did involve them.

"The worst part of the case was playing straight," he said with a small shrug. John laughed at that, so he went on. "No...the worst part was leaving you behind. Honestly. I came to visit you in the hospital, but-"

"You saved my life," John interrupted, lips pursing as he looked at the cane. 

"It was hardly a critical wound. All I did was call the ambulance," Sherlock answered.

John sighed and looked up. "No. You did. Don't...don't make me say it. I wasn't in the best shape, and you, you did that. Just...just, thank you." A silence fell between them, and john couldn't let that be. "And as for Doc, she was a horrible counselor to begin with, she didn't have to go and stab me."

Sherlock chuckled and nodded. "Really was a bit much. First the ruined marriage, then stitches."

John looked over at Sherlock, their eyes met, and they broke into laughter. 

"Hey," John said between giggles, "she ruined real and fake marriages alike."

Sherlock laughed harder and relaxed back on the bench. "Put me off women entirely," he joked.

John took a deep breath and rested his hand on Sherlock's thigh. "Thank god."

Sherlock hesitantly placed his hand over John's and felt it turn so their fingers laced together, which was wholly unexpected.

"It was fun, though. Stabbing aside," John murmured, brushing his thumb in circles. 

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "It was."

"Up for a bit more?" John asked, looking over and smiling softly, genuinely happy again.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed, "god yes."


	10. Impatient

"You've an appointment soon," Sherlock said, unable to ignore the quick glances John had been sending to his watch.

"Erm, yeah, actually. Physio in a half hour. I should," John said nodding towards the road and looking crestfallen.

"Yes," Sherlock replied with a soft smile, "you really should. Give me your mobile."

John pulled the thing from his pocket and passed it over, waiting patiently as Sherlock entered his name, number, and address. When it was handed back Sherlock stood and took a step backwards.

"You'll pick me up tonight?" he asked, hoping he didn't seem too eager.

"Yes," John said, rising and putting his mobile away. "Seven okay?"

"Perfect," Sherlock replied. 

John grinned and nodded, looking down at his feet for a second before stepping forward to surprise Sherlock with a quick kiss to one cheek. Sherlock couldn't help but stare as John walked away. 

He was transfixed. He was in some fairytale, surely. He was...staring into empty space.

_____

Sherlock spent the next few hours in the lab, fantasizing about turning down a case that night. No, he'd say to Lestrade, I have a date, and I'm not canceling it for a four.

Now, John. John might actually go along with him if it was a good case. That was an even more interesting fantasy. He could be brilliant and impressive and John could see how important he was to the police. John would praise him in front of them, smile that amazed smile, and everyone would know that Sherlock was desirable to him.

That shot a pleasant sort of shock through him. John thought he was desirable. John wanted to date him. John might think he was brilliant forever, might sleep with his arms around Sherlock's waist, might sit too close at coffee shops and pick up the groceries and rub his feet when they were sore from chasing criminals and bloody move with him to the country when he retired and-

_____

John showed up at 221b that night with a bouquet of flowers, deep reds and milky whites, and a hesitant smile. Being met by an overly excited old woman you don't know instead of your date can do that to a man, after all.

"Flowers!" she exclaimed, making John worry for a second that she misunderstood them as being for her. "Sherlock absolutely adores flowers! And look how handsome you are! Oh, I'll die happy now!"

Sherlock poked his head out the door at that second and started to scold her, his voice cutting out after the first word as his eyes fell on John. The flitted over him, for some reason taking clear note of his shoes, before landing on the flowers. Luckily, before things could become more awkward, Mrs Hudson pushed John along and went back into her own flat. 

"Flowers," Sherlock said, voice soft and holding concern.

John swallowed hard, wondering if it was all too much, and managed to hobble his way up to the second landing. "You don't mind the flowers, do you?" he tried.

Sherlock shook his head, furrowed brows making him look especially kissable, and held his hand out. John pressed the flowers into it and Sherlock disappeared around the corner. And...that was alright, John supposed. It wasn't as if he was expecting the response he'd gotten from Mrs H. Sherlock was just more...subdued, and that was okay.

(John's brain told him different, of course. It said that the look in Sherlock's eyes was definitely NOT ON.)

He cleared his throat of the growing anxiety and spoke as he walked into the flat and closed the door. "So, we can take the tube if-oof!"

In the time it took him to look down at his watch, Sherlock was back, surrounding him and pressing him indelicately against the wall. The lips on his neck would have been enough to silence him even without the air in his lungs being forced out by the collision. When he did get his breath back, his voice, thankfully, came with it.

"Well, hello to you, too," he said, chuckling and letting one arm wrap around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock did something particularly brilliant with his tongue and John heard his cane fall to the floor. He didn't even think, he just gripped Sherlock's shirt at the waist and pulled him closer, his thigh slotting between those gorgeously long legs and pressing.

And, yes, that did it. Enough of a sigh out of Sherlock that he detached from John's neck. John managed to lean down and catch his lips, pulling his face up so he could kiss the man properly, and feeling him start to grind on his thigh.

"Fuck," John panted between kisses. "Perfect. Oh, you like that, don't you?"

"John," was all Sherlock seemed able to say, the name coming out warbled and weak, breathy and full of emotion.

"God, you feel good," John said, pulling at Sherlock's hips and gripping his arse.

Sherlock shuddered and his tongue managed to join in, and things suddenly became wet and hot. The push and pull, the addition of teeth, and John was finding himself frighteningly close to spilling over right there. By the broken noises Sherlock was making, he was in the same predicament.

"Christ, you're perfect. Clever tongue of yours. You're right there, aren't you?" John knew it might be wicked to push the man over the edge right there in the entryway, but he didn't seem to want to slow down. 

Sherlock nodded and pressed his face back into John's neck, breathing roughly there instead of kissing. 

"Go ahead," John murmured, kissing Sherlock's curls. "Go ahead, but be quiet. Come on, gorgeous."

Sherlock thrust and bit his lip, grunting and spilling and melting in John's arms. His utter relaxation gave John's prick a break from the hot press of him, and John found he was back on solid ground. Which was, dear god, where he wanted to be. He'd rather not try to clean come out of his pants right before dinner, after all. His cock gave another small jump at that and he focused on breathing and holding Sherlock close.

After a few moments Sherlock ruined the entire plan by slipping one slim hand down the front of John's trousers and causing him to huff out a small whine before completely falling apart. 

"You brought me flowers," Sherlock murmured, finally glancing up and looking John in the eye, a strange thing to do with your hand still wrapped around a bloke's spent cock.

John let his head fall to the side, not really minding the hand. "I did. Take it that was a good call."

Sherlock pulled at his sensitive prick at that before pulling his hand out and looking at it somewhat suspiciously. John huffed out a laugh and rested against the wall.

"You really are something else," he murmured, lassitude threatening to direct him to the closest bed.

"But, that was...alright?" Sherlock asked, nervous smile making John want to kiss him again.

John giggled and slumped more where he was so he could reach the cane. "Best bloody handjob I've had in years."

Sherlock blushed a bit and looked rather proud of himself. "I'd better," he said, holding his hand up and gesturing towards what must have been the kitchen.

"Mmm," John agreed. "Where's the loo?"

Sherlock pointed the way and John went to grab some tissues. When he got back to the kitchen, perfunctory cleaning managed, he found Sherlock arranging the flowers at the sink. He walked up behind the man and allowed himself the small act of kissing his shoulder.

"I love flowers," Sherlock said, playing around with the length of the stems and looking like he'd done arranging before.

"I can tell," John teased, standing beside him. "It was quite the reaction."

Sherlock turned and ducked down to kiss John again before rattling off some facts about the meanings of certain flowers during Victorian times, a conversation John would probably forget the gist of in no time. He was perfect like that, though; effusively spitting out facts.

When he was done with the flowers he brought the vase to the sitting room and walked back through the kitchen to what looked like his bedroom. John waited while he changed, feeling fuzzy and muddled and fantastic, and then they headed out into the world, arm in arm.

_____

Sherlock knew beyond a doubt that he was being impatient, but that was rather his style and he figured that since they'd got off together, it was a reasonable question.

"Would you be interested in becoming my significant other? Boyfriend, partner, better half?" he asked, sitting with his head resting on John's shoulder and both arms wrapped around him. (Something the cabbie was currently frowning at.)

John smiled and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Course. Course I would."

"Good," Sherlock sighed happily, closing his eyes. 

And it was good, and they were heading out on a date, and John was warm. Very good, indeed.


	11. Dinner

The second they entered the Indian restaurant that John had picked out, a small woman near the back started shouting in Hindi. John looked behind them to see who she was shouting at, and instead found that Sherlock was rolling his eyes. John looked back at the woman, who continued to be verbally irritated, just as Sherlock replied. Also, in Hindi, which John didn't speak.

John was about to say that perhaps they should leave when the woman broke out in a wide grin and shuffled over to hug Sherlock around the waist, chattering now in a softer voice. Sherlock and the woman spoke sweetly for a second before she kissed him on the cheek and left in the direction of the kitchen.

"She says to sit near the back," Sherlock said, taking John's hand and pulling him along.

They took a seat in a corner booth and a young man brought them menus and a candle for the table.

"So, you know her?" John asked, finally able to string a sentence together.

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed. "Solved a case for her a year back. She was under the impression that I no longer enjoyed her cooking. The truth is, I hardly have time for anything other than delivery."

"So...she was glad to see you," John said with a growing smile.

"It seems so," Sherlock admitted softly.

John slipped his hand into Sherlock's and kissed his shoulder. Bloody charming.

_____

They'd got a bit wine drunk during dinner, John grinning like a madman as Sherlock explained what he did for a living. He was beyond interesting, he was so much more than anyone John had ever met. John hadn't forgot what it was like to be in Sherlock's presence, because like a natural disaster, you never quite forget, but having it wash over him again was a shock.

He bathed in Sherlock's words, explanations going in one ear and out the other, and fed the man small bits of food when he could. He actually finished all of the food on his own plate, which was surprising, and they were suddenly full and drifting towards drunk, and in need of fresh air.

"I...have the newspaper clippings of your case at my flat. If you're interested," Sherlock said, leaning closer to John with that gorgeous smile of his.

"Yeah," John said, nodding. "Yeah, let's go."

Sherlock stood and let go of John's hand to slip into his greatcoat. John pulled out his wallet but Sherlock stilled his hand as the woman from earlier, the owner and chef, reappeared. She handed Sherlock a takeaway box and smacked John's hand.

"She says it's on the house," Sherlock smiled, "as long as we come here for out next date."

John thanked her and received his own kiss on the cheek, and they went out to get a cab.

_____

After making it back to the flat without a full on snogging session in the cab, Sherlock ran up the stairs ahead of John. By the time John made it to the landing, Sherlock was bustling around the room, tidying of a sort, and obviously nervous. John just watched him, the madman, and smiled.

"The clippings are just..." Sherlock said, pulling a box from beneath the sofa and tossing the lid off.

John was happy to join him at the sofa and slumped into it with a small sigh. 

"Here," Sherlock said, pressing an envelope into his hands with his name scrawled sloppily across the front.

"The, uh, the newspaper spelled my name wrong," John said, as he looked over the first of the clippings.

"They remedied it the next day," Sherlock replied, arranging his hands carefully in his lap. "I spoke with the editor."

John snorted and looked up at him. "You spoke to the editor because they spelled my name wrong?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, and refused to hold anything back. John, and only John, had asked him months ago for his truth, so he would have it.

"I yelled at the editor. Nearly got thrown from his office. Bad behavior, on my part, I'm most certainty sure, but I couldn't seem to be okay after...after..." Sherlock replied.

"It's alright. Really," John said, buoyed by how uncertain Sherlock seemed.

"I'm a ridiculous man. You'd better know that ahead of time. I'm ridiculous, and rude, and-" Sherlock started.

"Brilliant," John interrupted, "and bloody gorgeous. Yes, I know."

"You've not seen me, really," Sherlock countered.

"Hey," John replied, taking Sherlock's hand and pulling it to his lips for a quick kiss, "you're gorgeous, really, but you're a bit shite at pretending. I saw you then. Tobacco ash, communicable diseases, nature, breaking the rules, making me laugh. Was any of that a lie?"

"No," Sherlock replied softly.

"Fine. That's it, then. That's the man-" John said, cutting himself off and clearing his throat. "That's you. I see you."

The envelope fell from John's hands the second Sherlock climbed into his lap. He had moved across the space so quickly that John was concerned he may have been eaten whole. Instead he straddled John's lap and rested against his chest, a puppet with its strings cut.

John wrapped his arms gently around the man's back and tried not to moan at how good it felt. "Hey, you alright?" he asked, voice soft as he could manage.

"I've missed you," Sherlock admitted, breath hot against John's neck.

"Cor," John sighed, unable to express how that phrase hit him, "me too. Me too."


	12. Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting close to the end now. Gotta work out the kinks. Poor boys.

"Do you remember that night in the field?" Sherlock asked, face pressed against John's neck where he sat on the sofa.

"Mmm," John murmured, because he did. He remembered that night well.

"That was...romantic," Sherlock whispered.

John chuckled and held him close. "It was, wasn't it?"

They'd spent the second to last night at camp on a blanket in the middle of the field behind the cabins. It was the first night without clouds, and John wanted to enjoy it before the rain came back. He'd taught Sherlock about constellations.

"I touched your hand on purpose," Sherlock said, referring to the one time they'd almost held hands.

"I didn't pull away."

Sherlock took a shaky breath. "I'm not used to this."

"To being held?" John asked, his heart hurting at the admission.

"Well, that too, but I meant...I'm not used to loving someone. It's done something to my insides and I feel like I'm too big for my skin," Sherlock explained, breath coming quicker as he began to panic.

"Shhh," John soothed. "It's okay. I've got you."

"Is it...is it always like this?" Sherlock asked, sitting back a bit to hide his face against John's chest.

"Love?" John asked, the word feeling fragile on his tongue.

Sherlock nodded, curling in on himself more.

"I'm not exactly an expert," John answered, feeling horrible at admitting it. Feeling like a child.

Sherlock sat up straight just then and looked at John, eyebrows knit. "But, surely you've felt this before. With Mary-"

"Yeah," John sighed, feeling flayed open, "not really. I, I mean, I tried. I tried, but, um, I guess I-"

The look in Sherlock's eyes shut John up. He didn't know what it meant, only that Sherlock was disturbed by his answer. His brain spit out multiple endings to the conversation, and none of hem were good. He'd known it was a bad idea to admit it, felt it made him look like the worst kind of liar. He'd told Mary he loved her many times, and each time it had been a lie. He married her, for God's sake.

"What I mean, is," he tried, amazed that he was actually about to lie again.

"I'm the first," Sherlock interrupted. "I'm the first person you've ever loved."

His face held a look of pure, unadulterated awe, and suddenly John was able to breathe again. 

"Yeah," John said, not sure at all how they'd got to that point.

"But that's...you're a romantic. That's...tragic," Sherlock sputtered, searching John's face.

John snorted and looked down. "I was close once. Nothing happened."

"In the army," Sherlock guessed.

John nodded. "What about you? I know there was someone."

"Vitctor," Sherlock answered, looking down at his hands.

John leaned up and kissed him gently before sitting back.

"I ruined it. I always ruin everything, I'll ruin us," Sherlock said, eyes going distant.

John grew worried. He didn't look well. It took a whole hell of a lot for him to continue, his first instinct was to not talk about things like this. His therapist's voice was ringing in his ears. 'Tell me now. Tell me what you wanted to tell him.'

"What do you mean?" he asked, amazed the words came out.

"We were on a case and he got hurt. I couldn't, I was busy with something else, and-" Sherlock said urgently.

Christ, if that didn't sound familiar. He'd almost said the same exact words years earlier. It had taken over a year of therapy for him to say them, so he wondered how long Sherlock had held onto these thoughts.

"It wasn't your fault," John said anticipating the anger that flashed across Sherlock's face.

"That's very kind of you to say, John, but-" Sherlock spat, struggling his way out of John's lap.

John stood and followed him to the kitchen. "He was there of his own volition, yeah?"

Sherlock rummaged loudly through the cabinets and finally pulled out two mugs, setting them on the counter with a thunk. "Well, yes, but I was in charge. I was the one who knew how things were meant to happen. I KNEW there was a possibility of danger and I let him come anyway."

"You can't control what others want to do," John said, leaning against the kitchen table. Sherlock stayed silent, so he pushed. Things like that were like pulling off a plaster; best done in one fell swoop. "Did you lie to him about the danger?" And he only asked it because he knew the answer already.

"Of course not!" Sherlock shouted, rounding on him.

"Okay," John said, nodding once, "so he knew what he was getting into."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and it was like watching a car crash in slow motion. John could pinpoint the exact moment he would explode.

"He was locked in the boot of a car for hours, John. Hours. He thought he was going to die in there. I should have never-" Sherlock hissed, taking a step forward.

"Should have never let him get hurt," John finished. "Because you should have controlled everything perfectly. Because in situations like that, things always go by the plan, right? Things go by the plan and good people don't get hurt, because he world is a just place."

Sherlock snorted and took a step back.

"Do you see how silly that sounds?" John pressed. 

Something flickered over Sherlock's face and he took a deep breath.

"The man I was close to loving in the army," John said, feeling the memory of telling the story the first time like ash on his tongue. "He got hurt. He was pulling me to safety when the bomb went off, because I'd gone and got myself shot. I saw the fire engulf him." His voice broke, but he went on. "I couldn't save him from that, and we were never the same. Last time I saw him he couldn't look me in the eye."

Sherlock's face had softened and he took a step forward. "John-"

John looked up, sad, but smiling softly. "Wasn't my fault? That's what you were going to say, right?"

Sherlock swallowed and looked at his feet.

"I know that. Doesn't feel true, but I know it," John answered, closing the space between them.

Sherlock slumped against John and let out a deep sob.

"I know," John murmured, wrapping his arms around him, "I know. It's okay. Why don't we crawl into bed? Hmm? I think this is enough for one night."

Sherlock nodded and sniffled against his shoulder, and they walked together to the bedroom, turning off lights as they went and stripping down to their pants. When they were finally under the covers John pulled Sherlock against him and kissed his shoulder gently.

"I'm tired," Sherlock whispered, "I'm actually tired."

"Yeah," John chuckled, "honesty is like a kick in the arse sometimes. Go to sleep, now."

There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke again, long enough that John had thought he'd taken him up on the offer, long enough that John's mind started to wander into sleep territory.

"You'll stay?" Sherlock asked, his voice cracking.

John kissed his shoulder again. "As long as you'll have me," John answered, and god, it was true.


End file.
